Now it was spread out before my eyes; flat, and already immense. Nevertheless, from the appearance of its surface, I judged that I was still at a great height above it, since I had passed that imperceptible frontier after which we measure the distance that separates us from a celestial body in terms of altitude. I was falling. Now I had the sensation of falling, even with my eyes closed. (I quickly reopened them: I did not want to miss anything there was to be seen.)

I waited a moment in silence before trying once more to make contact. No response. Successive bursts of static came through the headphones, against a background of deep, low-pitched murmuring, which seemed to me the very voice of the planet itself. A veil of mist covered the orange-colored sky, obscuring the porthole. Instinctively, I hunched myself up as much as my inflated suit would allow, but almost at once I realized that I was passing through cloud. Then, as though sucked upwards, the cloud-mass lifted; I was gliding, half in light, half in shadow, the capsule revolving upon its own vertical axis. At last, through the porthole, the gigantic ball of the sun appeared, looming up on the left and disappearing to the right.

A distant voice reached me through the murmuring and crackling.

“Station Solaris calling! Station Solaris calling! The capsule will land at zero-hour. I repeat, the capsule will land at zero-hour. Stand by for count-down. Two hundred and fifty, two hundred and forty-nine, two hundred and forty-eight…”

The words were punctuated by sharp screeching sounds; automatic equipment was intoning the phrases of the reception-drill. This was surprising, to say the least. As a rule, men on space stations were eager to greet a newcomer, especially if he was arriving direct from Earth. I did not have long to ponder this, for the sun’s orbit, which had so far encircled me, shifted unexpectedly, and the incandescent disc appeared now to the right, now to the left, seeming to dance on the planet’s horizon.